He gave a short, forced laugh as he broke off, and shook me almost roughly by the shoulder, saying, “Speak out! what--what do you want to say?” “It seems, sir, that I have said everything.” My voice trembled more than his, but not in the same way. “I have told you that I did not come by my own will,--quite otherwise. I resisted as long as I could: now all is said. It is for you to judge whether it was worth the trouble or not.” He got up from his seat in a hurried way. “You would have me as--mad as yourself,” he said, then sat down again as quickly. “Come, Phil: if it will please you, not to make a breach,--the first breach between us,--you shall have your way. I consent to your looking into that matter about the poor tenants. Your mind shall not be upset about that, even though I don’t enter into all your views.” “Thank you,” I said; “but, father, that is not what it is.” “Then it is a piece of folly,” he said angrily. “I suppose you mean--but this is a matter in which I choose to judge for myself.” “You know what I mean,” I said, as quietly as I could, “though I don’t myself know; that proves there is good reason for it. Will you do one thing for me before I leave you? Come with me into the drawing-room--” “What end,” he said, with again the tremble in his voice, “is to be served by that?” “I don’t very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, will always do something for us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breach when we stand there.” He got up, trembling like an old man, which he was, but which he never looked like save at moments of emotion like this, and told me to take the light; then stopped when he had got half-way across the room. “This is a piece of theatrical sentimentality,” he said. “No, Phil, I will not go. I will not bring her into any such--Put down the lamp, and, if you will take my advice, go to bed.” “At least,” I said, “I will trouble you no more, father, to-night. So long as you understand, there need be no more to say.”